April
Late in the night, I finish The Lady’s Secret. I’d planned on saving the ending, keeping myself in suspense, but somehow, I kept ‘turning’ the electronic pages until I got to those two little words: The end. And in fact, with the film being shot out of sequence, there were some hints on the call sheet that might have given the ending away anyway, so it’s just as well that I got through it.
After the lovemaking scene, the book goes back to the ‘jealousy and intrigue’ plot. The master’s smuggling activities are given away by a traitor, and he leaves again to go into hiding. The Watcher is free to make all sorts of mischief and Victoria’s life is in danger. It turns out not to be Tom at all, but rather Charity’s sister, Belle, who apparently was in love with William Clarke all along. She murdered her sister, and now has it in for Victoria too. She lures Victoria out onto the roof, and this time, there’s no one to rescue her. They struggle. Belle falls to her death. Victoria is shaken and shattered, but ultimately, alive. And, in a lucky coincidence, heard through the servant grapevine, Tom too has been killed – falling off his horse while drunk. William gets a lucky break when the traitor ends up dead, seemingly at his own hand. There are a few more tense moments when Victoria reveals her true identity to William, but in true ‘love conquers all’ fashion, her deception is forgiven and forgotten. An omniscient hand having removed all impediments, Victoria and William marry and live happily ever after.
I flip back to the beginning of the book – I’ll reread it, I decide – follow along as they film the various scenes. In spite of my literary snobbishness, I’ve enjoyed the twists and turns in Victoria’s fortune. Even if the happy ending was too neat and inevitable, I’m satisfied that she got it. What more can a romance novel hope to achieve?
I turn off the light, but once again sleep won’t come. It’s been a few days since my altercation with Luke and my first meeting with Phillipa. Since then, I’ve mostly been at work so I haven’t seen much of either of them. And Theo – he responded briefly to my text saying that he’d had fun too, but notably not making any further plans. My exhausted mind jumbles with thoughts of Victoria, Phillipa, William, and Luke. As much as I’ve sworn to myself that never again will I expose my heart to another person, I can’t help but envy them. As my eyelids finally start to droop, I spare a thought for the stalker and would-be-killer – Belle. She may be the villainess, but she’s not a monster – just a woman who’s been unlucky in love, and jealous of the happiness of those around her. It may not be an admirable emotion, but it’s an understandable one, I guess. In a house full of would-be lovers, it can be very lonely to be on the outside looking in.
*
The next morning, everything is due to kick off. The lion’s share of the cast is arriving; along with their trailers, and entourage. The one notable absence is Natasha Blythe, who, due to a scheduling conflict, won’t be starting her scenes until the second week. In addition to the cast, there are make-up artists, costumers, hair-stylists; camera people, key grips, runners, best boys – titles I’ve seen before in film credits, but whose function I can only guess at. Luke has about five different assistants, and apparently there are different screenplays for all the various technical and artistic functions. Each of the assistants have their own assistants – it’s like a small medieval society where everyone has a title and a fiefdom.
A van containing two black horses and a piebald pony arrives, and I learn that Simon has secured himself a job in helping to look after them. I’m sure that he and Connie will enjoy watching the filming of ‘William Clarke gallops off at dawn’ and the like. I get the distinct impression that Dominic Kennedy is the kind of actor who will insist on doing his own stunts.
Katie pretends to be sick so she can stay home, but I persuade her that if she really wants a part in the film, she’d better not put a foot wrong at school. She agrees – reluctantly. I know exactly how she feels – that extreme sense of missing something. Because unfortunately, I have to go to work.
I grab a coffee and a copy of the day’s call sheet from the marquee on my way to get the train. As I’m walking out of the gate, there’s a minor bit of commotion. Two of the Johns and Danny, the security guard, are trying to shoo away a couple of paparazzi who have turned up uninvited, with huge cameras with oversized lens slung around their necks. I’m a little shocked when one of the men steps forward and takes my photo, the flash temporarily blinding me before I can raise my hand to shield my eyes. ‘Stop that!’ I say, like I’m reprimanding one of my children.
‘It’s my job,’ the man says. ‘Can I get a quote from you?’
‘No, Lizzie, don’t,’ John J says.
‘I can’t,’ I say to the man. The contract I’ve signed has a strict confidentiality clause that forbids me talking to the media. The last thing I need is to breach it. ‘Sorry.’
*
I try to work on the train, squeezed into a middle seat of three, but I can’t even begin to concentrate. I unfold the call sheet, feeling oddly proud when I sense the man next to me glancing over at what I’m reading.
The call sheet has everything that the cast and crew need for the day’s filming – from names and mobile numbers of all the technical crew, to the weather, to where to park, to what time lunch will be served. The cast section is similarly detailed – outlining who’s needed when, hotel collection times, hair, make-up, and rehearsal times, and on set times. I see that on the first day, the scenes only involve William Clarke, played, of course, by Dominic Kennedy, and Sambrooke, his servant, played by a young actor called Will Fairfax. The call sheet also gives the order of the day’s filming – the pages of the script, the scene number, the location in the house, and a brief description of the action. The scenes are broken down into minutiae – ‘William dismounts from his horse at the gate’; ‘Sambrooke brings in supper on a tray’; ‘the camera pans through the rooms to the library’; ‘close-up of William taking off his boots in front of the fire.’ The sheer detail makes me reluctantly impressed with the work that has gone into it by Luke and his various assistants. All those days when he was lurking around, he must have been visualising the filming scene by scene, breaking down the book and the screenplay into all of its component parts. The final product, whatever it is, will be very much through Luke’s eyes.
I fold the call sheet back up and put it in my bag. Though everything seems well-organised, there are a lot of moving parts, and it strikes me how much is riding on everything going well. There are hundreds of people involved, and millions of pounds. There are several different locations in addition to Tanglewild – a London street, a local village green, a twee country church.
My role – or rather, that of my house – seems like a very small part of the whole machine. But it’s a critical part, and I want it to be a success.
Alas, though, duty calls. In addition to work, I also have The Lawyer Awards in the evening. My black dress is folded up in a bag, along with a pair of high heels.
The day itself is long and tedious, filled with conference calls and putting out little corporate fires. At four o’clock I take a break for a cup of tea and think of Katie and Jack, wondering what shenanigans will be going on when Connie brings them home from school. I suspect that she’ll take them straight home so that they don’t miss a thing. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to her about Katie having a part in the film, and I realise how much I’ve come to value her advice. Will Phillipa have already added Katie to the script, and have cleared the whole thing with Luke? Or will I have to deal with more of his amateur dramatics and moodiness and then have the burden of telling my daughter that the whole thing is off?
My boss Harry is unusually chipper as he, I and two other male associates from our group climb into a taxi at six o’clock to go off to the awards ceremony. Our firm is up for ‘Law Firm of the Year,’ and our department is up for ‘Best Project Finance Department’. It strikes me as unfair that I’ve been asked along when I’ve only been at the firm a short time, but Harry was insistent – a particularly worrying sign. Since the awkwardness in the conference room, he’s kept his distance. I’ve tried to be professional and detached, and keep my head down. But from the moment we arrive at the Guildhall and are each handed a flute of champagne by a roving waitress, I sense that I’ll need to be on my guard.
‘You look lovely, Lizzie,’ he says. His hand hovers over the small of my back. The dress is more low-cut than I remember it being, and his eyes drop to take in my cleavage.
‘Thanks, Harry,’ I say, making an effort not to cringe. ‘I’m just hoping I can keep fending off the chickenpox – Jack has a bad case and I’ve never had them,’ I lie, hoping he hasn’t either so that maybe he’ll keep his distance. Bad luck – the hand stays where it is. Giving up on infectious diseases, I step away. ‘Oh look, isn’t that Matt’s boss from Citibank? What’s her name again?’
I make a beeline for the person I sort of recognise and horn my way into her circle. She obviously doesn’t know me, and I don’t know the other people she’s speaking to – but that’s not unusual for one of these events. I keep a smile plastered on my face, and try to keep at least one person as a buffer between me and Harry. It’s all about small talk and an exchange of business cards, and I’m handed another glass of champagne when my first one is empty. On an empty stomach, the alcohol goes straight to my head. We’re eventually herded into the main room, full of tables seating twelve people. I feel tense and uneasy when I discover that I’m seated next to Harry, my back to the stage. On his other side is the CEO of one of our big clients who will hopefully keep him occupied until the entertainment starts, the event finishes, and I can gracefully duck out and get the late train home. Hopefully. I also note the six bottles each of red and white wine on each table – a full bottle for each person.
My wine glass is filled, and the emcee, a famous comedian I recognise from TV, comes out onto the stage and starts telling jokes. A crowd of lawyers, rapidly becoming lubricated by alcohol, make a raucous audience. I’m halfway through my first glass of red wine when I feel the hand on my thigh. As the fingers snake up my tights, my skin shrinks with revulsion and disgust. I compare through a fog of drink the various outcomes. If I remove the hand, I may lose my job. If I let the hand stay, I’ll have to quit. I check my watch. It’s only half-seven.
‘You look so hot tonight, Lizzie.’ Harry’s breath in my ear stinks of wine. ‘Let’s leave at intermission. I’m staying in town tonight.’
The emcee tells a joke that has the whole room practically peeing themselves in laughter. But all I feel is a sense of outrage. In one fell swoop, I remove the hand, and lean in to whisper in my boss’s ear. ‘Get your hands off of me, Harry,’ I say. ‘It’s not going to happen. Ever.’
‘What the fuck?’ he snarls in a low voice. ‘I did you a favour, taking you back. Now it’s time for you to show a little gratitude.’
‘Gratitude?’ I say aloud, standing up. ‘Is that what you call it?’ Ignoring the startled looks from the others at the table, I grab my handbag and walk quickly out of the room. I go to the coat check, collect my coat and briefcase, and leave the building, walking in the direction of the Tube station. As much as it might be nice to go out in a blaze of glory springing for a taxi, I know that I’m going to need to save every penny – as I take a flying leap into the uncertain and the unknown.